


Revenge

by ghostology



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Ghosts, LGBT, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Paranormal, Romance, Ryden, Rydon, pararomance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5949538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostology/pseuds/ghostology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything begins where it should have ended: with death.</p><p>First, the cynical Ryan Ross was found dead in his bath tub. Then, Pete "Fuck Boy" Wentz took his last breaths on school campus. The most recent victim is the charismatic Brendon Urie, who ended up sprawled at the bottom of a cliff.</p><p>Now, the only way for them to find peace in the afterlife is to find out who their murderer is and exact revenge.</p><p>However, the killer remains as hidden as Ryan's and Brendon's feelings for each other. It also doesn't help that the three didn't have much luck getting on many of their peers' good sides while they were alive.</p><p>Everyone, physically and spiritually present, is frantically searching for the doer of these crimes before another Las Vegas teenager loses a life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was a full moon in the sky. It's elegance, however, was tragically easy to miss, hidden behind the branches littering the sky above. 

Full moons have a certain paradoxical captivity to them. 

They light up the scenery, exposing all that lies in the mysterious darkness. Everything is made beautiful by them, but, at the same time, eerie. 

In some cultures, full moons indicate the time for werewolves to be out. Shrill howls sound, slicing through the crisp night air, inducing involuntary shivers on any unfortunate enough to hear them. 

It's a good thing werewolves aren't real. 

Eleven is such a boring time of night. The sunset has already been missed, and two o'clock thoughts haven't arrived to distract the fragile human mind yet, the stupid, superficial human mind. 

Brendon was running. 

At eleven in the evening. Through the trees. Under the full moon. 

There was also a knife. 

Brendon may have regretted not listening to the news castor and his warnings of the "potential danger in the area."

The report was incredibly sugar-coated, not portraying the intense fear being chased by a psychotic murderer instills in your chest. 

He may have regretted choosing to attend the party hosted by a friend of a friend, if he somehow could have known this would happen. 

However, there is no time for regret on one's mind as death approaches, only terror and instinct. 

Brendon felt warm liquid on his leg, accompanied by a stinging throb. A tear escaped his eye as he realized that could have been the end. As stupid of a mistake as tripping on a root could have taken his life from his desperate, grasping hands.

Brendon wanted to turn back and look at his pursuer, he really did. Maybe, if he turned out of the situation alive, he would identify the serial killer terrorizing his town. He would have died for all of that bittersweet attention. 

In the end, he just died.

Brendon could definitely outrun this person, but their endurance beat him by a mile. 

In a different situation than the one at hand, Brendon may have laughed at a pun as mediocre as that. He may have even made the joke himself if this were a poorly directed slasher film. 

But he wasn't joking. This wasn't a movie. He was about to die and the only thing he was thinking about was his innate fear of it. 

Maybe he should have been thinking about where he was going instead. He felt his heart drop to his toes as he stopped in front of a ten foot drop off. 

Brendon was panicking. He was still crying, and breathing came in rushed, shallow gasps. 

His body was found at the bottom, approximately thirty-seven hours later. 

Who's to say he didn't deserve it? His murderer sure thought that he did. He hadn't seen his mom in years. He was on the bad side of a few kids at school. 

Lincoln Prep. Officers kept bring that name up in the investigation. It was seemingly the only link in the murders, besides the cut of course, of three Vegas teens, Ryan Ross, Pete Wentz, and, as of last night, Brendon Urie. 

The knife wound. 

As described by authorities, "Urie's death was a disturbing one." The damage after he fell, or was pushed off, was as minor as a few fractured bones and many bruises. However, the killer appeared to have slit his throat, ear to ear. It was determined inconclusive as to whether this happened antecedent or posterior to his fall. 

The police are like vultures, only turning up after something bad has happened. 

9/12/15: The police believed this was the same murderer involved in Ryan Ross' homicide. His body was found in this bathtub a week before Pete Wentz's, throat slit, tub stained red. 

9/17/15: A teacher recognized Pete Wentz's body tied to a tree on school campus early Monday morning. His throat was cut as well. 

The three families grieved together. "He'll go to heaven." "He was such a good boy." He's in a better place now."

Those things were hardly true of Brendon. The same could be said for the other two, but it would only be half as true. It was amazing that Ryan's corpse was found shirtless and not Brendon's. He was all most never clothed. 

The boy was a real player, constantly stopping hearts. Ryan and Pete were merely fellow students, though still high up on the socially constructed list of popularity. 

You see, this wasn't just a psychotic killer, as most thought. This was a case of revenge.


	2. Chapter 2

Mikey was angry. Angry that his boyfriend was murdered, angry that his friends were killed, angry that he might be next.

"Michael, you've gone through a lot in the past month. Seeing these things happen to people close to you can have considerable affects on the state your mental health. We've come to conclude you are experiencing severe trauma, so try to be very careful with yourself."

Mikey was also sad. Sad that this happened to him, sad his health was bothering other people, sad for no reason other than sorrow and self-pity had found homes in his psyche. 

"You were already so on edge with grief from the loss of your friend, your mental and emotional strength was already weak. This is going to be difficult, but I'm sure you have many people in your life supporting you," the doctor said, nodding toward his mother who was standing beside his chair. Mikey was staring at his hands, hardly listening. 

"I wish Pete was here to support me," he mumbled. Neither heard him.

He didn't think anything was wrong, other than finding his best friend dead in his bathroom, covered in his own dried blood. Nothing was wrong with him, but absolutely everything was wrong with Pete's death, with Brendon's and Ryan's.

Mikey had a sickening feeling this was not the end of it, either.

"How do you feel now?" the doctor had asked. Mikey shrugged his shoulders. 

"We know you've been complaining about seeing, you know... You will most likely have flashbacks, if you want to call them that, reliving the situation, as well as nightmares."

Mikey knew about the nightmares.

"That's a hard thing you'll have to deal with. We can prescribe something to help you sleep."

We have medicine for your mood swings, Mikey thought. We can help with the impulses. Mikey was damn tired of feeling artificial, the only emotions he knew came in the form of chemicals.

"Your mother has also told me about your anxiousness."

"I'm not anxious, I don't worry too much! I just need the door to be locked, and the windows. Just in case," he huffed. Both adults gave him a pitying look. He hated all the pity for him. He was fine. The concern should be directed to his friends' families. 

The doctor turned to speak with his mom. He heard them murmuring about possible OCD. 

Mikey picked at his fingernails, not thinking about anything in particular. A nurse had handed him a pamphlet about trauma and how to cope with it. He was only able to concentrate enough to stare at the photograph on the cover. He had a lot of trouble concentrating as of late. He had given up entirely on school.

Fuck college, he just wanted his friends to be okay.

On the glossy cover was an attractive brunette woman laughing. He could not understand why she would be laughing while everyone around her asked her if she was okay when it wasn't even her who died. 

He didn't understand how he was supposed to be okay after seeing Ryan's head barley connected to his body. 

"Thank you again, doctor. We'll really consider the therapy."

Mikey felt like screaming, but he only shuffled out of the small room. His mother was, of course, trailing behind. She always was. 

The only thing worse than a mother who doesn't care: one who cares too much.

"Why didn't you call me first?" she had asked upon hearing of Mikey's incident. 

"Oh, I don't know, maybe I was busy, you know, calling an ambulance," was his bitter reply. 

He loved her to death (or he was supposed to, rather), but she was so invasive, not that anyone could blame her. Her husband had been having an affair behind her back for nearly two years. They filed for divorce when Mikey was nine, his brother twelve. 

"Dad was a bitch," Gerard said the day their father moved out, startling his elementary age brother. 

"Oh, so that's where you get it from," Miley teased and giggled. 

As a result, the boys were constantly having to delete text messages and lie about where they were just to achieve the luxury of a bit of privacy. 

Mikey's mom thought he was at the library when he drove to Ryan's house. 

Mikey wished he were at the library, as he did for Ryan even more so. 

But no one reads these days, in fact, the two despised reading with a dedicated passion. The hatred even inspired the tradition of Monday movie night. The two would only partially watch a film while gossiping about everyone in the school, their favorite subject being Brendon Urie. 

The three were good friends, so Ryan and Mikey never meant any harm. Mikey even reckoned Ryan had a thing for him. 

Nonetheless, Brendon was a popular dickhead with the unfortunate talent of getting caught up in needless high school drama, the same drama that brought the two friends together on Monday nights with a bag of popcorn.

Mikey didn't need to ring the doorbell. He normally just walked in, they were so close that the Ross residence may as well have been his own. 

It was almost sad how many friends Mikey had, how many people knew him, though there was only one he genuinely loved and trusted. It was, however, indeed sad that he ended up dying. 

"Ryan!" Mikey called after finding his room empty, save for the ugly family portrait his mother insisted on keeping on his dresser. 

"On of these days we'll have it redone with you in it, Mikey," Mr. Ross once joked. 

He sat on Ryan's bed, figuring he was just late, doing God knows what, or who. 

He pulled out his cellphone, as teens often do, and decided to text his friend. He rolled his eyes after hearing the notification from the restroom. 

"Did you really bring your phone to the toilet?" Mikey asked through a sigh. "Ryan?" He stood up after a moment to investigate Ryan's lack of answers. 

The door creaked open with a gentle push. A musty, metallic smell hit Mikey's nose. 

The smell may have pierced his nostrils, but the sight stabbed his goddamn eyes out. 

Ryan was sat in his usually white bathtub, thought the soft porcelain had been replaced by a violent crimson color that also spattered the wall beside him.

"That's a good fucking joke, Ryan." Mikey was shaking. "I've seen Scream Queens, I know you can fake a cut like that."

He decided to take his pulse, just to pacify his fears. Ryan's heart was as still as Mikey's own in that moment. "Oh, God," he breathed, tears falling against his will. He struggled to type in the three digit number instilled into American children at a young age. Parents just hoped they would never actually have to dial it. 

"9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

"My friend. There's blood everywhere. His throat, someone must've - I think someone tried to, to kill him."

"Is he conscious?"

"No, fuck."

"Is he breathing?"

"I don't... no, he's - he's not."

"Can you give me your location?"

"4202 G-Godsend Avenue."

"I'm going to ask you to leave the area, in case it's still unsafe. Police and medics have been dispatched. Would you like me to stay on the line?"

"Okay and no, I'm - thank you."

Mikey didn't leave; he didn't care enough. He sat with his back against the cabinets as people swarmed in around him. 

"Are you alright, son?"

He couldn't answer. He felt as if he weren't actually there, like it was all a dream, a horrible dream that would have awoken him late into the night. 

However, this one kept him up in the night. He had no idea what to do, he just found his best friend's lifeless body. What are you supposed to do after something like that?

Mikey just lay there, staring at the ceiling, like if he studied the shadows long enough it would somehow bring Ryan out of that black body bag.

"Rot in hell," he spit furiously at whoever had the audacity to do this. He huffed through his nose, hot, angry tears spilling onto the pillow.

He eventually accepted the fact that he was not going to indulge in sleep any time soon. He picked up his phone, deciding to text Pete, the same boyfriend who was to die five days later. 

I can't sleep can you come over? 

Mikey didn't know if Pete was still awake, let alone if he would actually come. 

sure, are you okay?

Mikey hesitated. 

I don't know. 

I'll be there in a few. xx

Mikey was so happy that Pete pushed himself into his life. 

As if it could get any more cliche, they met having both attended the same house party. It was the whole ordeal with red solo cups and shitty dance music blasting through the speakers. 

Pete had been drinking quite a bit for someone who was only a senior in high school. Mikey came to the the conclusion his spilling the beer on his shirt wasn't exactly an accident. 

"Mm, come here so I can clean you up," he slurred. Mikey, in a slightly intoxicated state himself, allowed Pete to drag him into the bathroom where they ended up fucking. 

"I think that we should get to know each other, you know, since my dicks been inside you and all."

"Okay," Pete giggled. 

"What's your favorite band?"

"3Oh!3. No I'm just kidding it's Arctic Monkeys."

Mikey nearly blacked out, because this boy was cute and had an incredible taste in music. Or maybe it was just the alcohol. 

"No way, me too!" Miley exclaimed. "What about The 1975?"

"Are you kidding? Me and Matty Healy are practically married. Well, he doesn't really know it, but one day he'll realize what a delight I am. If we ever meet. You know what, the odds really aren't in my flavor. I mean favor."

Pete put his finger to his lips. "Don't tell, though. Everyone thinks I like Fetty Wap." He nodded, then continued, "Seventeen thirty eight!"

Miley chuckled at how hopelessly drunk the other boy was. "What else do you want to know about me," Pete asked, making a ridiculous pose and gesturing towards his body. 

"Honestly, I'd rather make-out again."

"Same."

Mikey jumped on him with a messy kiss, teeth clacking together and his tongue everywhere.

Luckily, Pete wrote his phone number on Mikey's arm, and they met again, though considerably more sober. 

Mikey felt drunk when he was with Pete. He liked how fun and unpredictable he was. Everyone said that Pete was annoying and a total fuckboy, and that Mikey was "blinded by his affection."

But Pete just got him, and, as an angst ridden teen, it was greatly needed and appreciated.

So, when tragedies like their friends being murdered occurred (this was notably the worst of tragedies), Mikey turned to his boyfriend for comfort.

Mikey sniffled into his black v-neck. "I just feel so bad and selfish that I don't want to go."

"No, babe, don't," Pete said. "I know the funeral will make things feel worse for you." He rubbed Mikey's arm to try and comfort him. He sighed and rested his head on Pete's shoulder. 

"It just doesn't feel real, you know?"

"Yeah," sighed Pete. "I remember I first met him that time Brendon tried to sled down the stairs. Ryan was there, rolling his eyes as always."

Mikey chuckled at that. "He was always exasperated by nearly everyone for one reason or another."

Brendon was a special child, as some would put it. He only had ADHD, in reality. Mikey just thought he was far too reckless with a far too large ego. 

"Clear the way, clear the way!" he yelled, running to the top of the staircase in the lobby of the school, green saucer in hand. 

"Where did he even buy a sled in Vegas?" Ryan had asked Mikey. He just shook his head and turned his attention toward the newest Brendon Scheme. 

"Mikey, come give me a push!" Brendon called. He hesitantly walked over to his friend. Ryan rolled his eyes. 

"You sure this is, you know, not going to kill you," he asked. Brendon had a rather unfortunate habit of not thinking things out, which became apparent a bit too much. 

"No," Brendon answered, but he flashed his signature charming smile, leaving Mikey with little less too do than agree. 

In the end, Brendon had earned a detention slip and a mildly sprained wrist. 

"It was so worth it, dude," he told Mikey, Ryan, and Pete when they were all together after school. 

Now it was only Mikey and Brendon, after Pete's death. Ryan left one less person on the soccer team, and Pete left one less person in Lincoln Prep. Two less people who could make Mikey smile. Two less people was too many gone, and he could hardly stand it.


	3. Chapter 3

Brendon always hoped he'd go to Heaven. 

He wasn't actually a Christian. Not even close as his family practiced Mormonism. 

He wasn't even religious, but somewhere in himself, he hoped that you didn't just die, and that's it. The thought of just sleeping forever without feeling anything, without experiencing anything, frightened him. 

On the contrary, Ryan embraced that idea with intense anticipation. 

It may have only been his teen angst, but sleeping for the rest of eternity seemed preferable to attending high school for another year and a half. It was preferable to learning every day just to suffer through a tedious day job with a meager wage, solely because you need to keep living to do that very same job. 

It was preferable to "creating yourself," or whatever bullshit adults come up with so teenagers feel like they have a reason to be interested in their pathetic, childish lives and don't off themselves.

Perhaps Ryan had been listening to far too much of The Smiths.

Besides, he only thought of those things on occasion, or so he thought, but some had attributed the nickname of "Debby downer" to him. Nonetheless, he was content for the most part, save for the fact he had the rest of high school and college to look forward to. He swore he would drop out come senior year. 

Or, he would have, rather, if he were still alive. 

However his life, the one thing of actual value he owned, was stripped from him, quite literally, violently. Just maybe he had been exaggerating in stating death was preferable to high school, now that he invited himself straight into Ryan's bathroom and introduced himself. 

Lying in the bathtub for his final moments, he thought of his life, or as much of it as could come in his level of consciousness. He had to admit he had a considerably pleasant life. 

Except for when Keltie broke up with him. That bitch. 

Ryan felt like he was floating, as if he were drunk or on drugs, or both. He couldn't see. It was either too bright or too dark, but he couldn't determine which. He felt so light, weightless even, but too heavy. 

He thought he would embrace death, but, God, how he tried to fight for his life. Determinedly so, Ryan was a walking paradox, trotting the line between demise and existence. 

Then he woke up. 

The sight of a person in a dark coat exiting the bathroom caught his eye. Panicked, he called out to them. "Hey!" They didn't turn around. 

"What the fuck are you doing!" Ryan began to sprint after the figure. He stopped as he passed the furnace, taking the fire iron as a means of protection. He saw a guy on American Horror Story get killed by someone shoving one of those up his ass, so it provided both purpose as a weapon and a sense of security. 

Except, Ryan's hand went through the metal. He was at a loss, with little idea of what to do save for stare at his fingers.

He must have been hallucinating. It was a plausible theory considering the amount of blood he lost. He was surprised that he wasn't dead. 

The sound of the front door slamming echoed through the hall.

Ryan ran to it. He would catch this killer of it was the last thing his mortal body would do. 

He yanked the handle and jumped through the door. Not through the open door frame, mind you, he, again, went through the wood. 

At this point, Ryan gave up on his pursuer entirely. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

He experimentally tried to walk into the door once more and did indeed pass through. 

"The fuck?" he murmured to himself. "I'm dreaming." He chuckled dryly and pinched himself. His mother had always said to pinch your arm to wake up from a nightmare. 

Then she died as well. 

He squeezed his arm, but nothing happened. He hardly even felt it. Well, Ryan always had been a deep sleeper. 

He made the conscious decision to physically (or mentally, he wasn't sure what constituted as physically in a dream) get into bed and trick his psyche into thinking he was in deep REM.

Ryan trudged up the stairs and surpassed the bathroom, or tried to, rather. However, the red on his door caught his attention, and he felt drawn to the room that should have induced trauma. 

He couldn't stop his feet from moving forwards. 

Inside, he witnessed his pale body nearly drowning in red and terror still etched onto his face. One of his arms hung out of the side, reaching, praying for any sort of help. 

The sight should have provoked a reaction. Ryan should have felt sick. He was looking at his own corpse. 

But he didn't, and that worried him. It made him nervous enough to put two fingers down his throat and attempt to force his throwing up. 

But he couldn't. He yelled out in frustration, then quickly covered his mouth, hoping he didn't wake his father. 

Yet, his father wasn't the parent he saw in the bathroom that night. He felt a hand on his shoulder, the first contact he has been able to perceive since the cold of the porcelain tub. 

He turned around to face his mother. 

"Ryan, I can't be with you too long," she began. Ryan touched her face. He has to be sure she was there, in front of him. "But you're dead. I have to be the one to tell you this, because the first ghost you interact with is the deceased person you care most about." 

Ryan nodded, unable to do anything more.

"Take this," she said, handing him a thick, leather book. "That will explain everything. I wish I could stay longer, I really do, but we died in different ways. You have a job to do."

"A what? Why?" Ryan questioned.

"Goodbye, Ryan. I'm sorry." 

"Wait!" But she was already gone. 

Ryan punched the wall, but his fist went straight into the plaster. 

He slid down to the floor in bitter defeat. He was screwed, to say the least, screwed and confused. 

There's no way he was a ghost; they didn't exist. 

Nevertheless, he saw his mother, touched her. She felt as real as Ryan needed her to be. 

Quite in the same way that Brendon needed a net at the bottom of the drop off. Desperately. 

He also craved oxygen to put out the fire in his lungs. He needed to stop and to rest, but, tragically, that would invite the end of his life. 

Ryan watched him run. He encouraged him on as best he could, knowing Brendon couldn't see him. 

His heart sank as Brendon fell. He had a look of pure terror on his face, not unlike that of Ryan's own when he was in the same position. 

Ryan didn't want his face to look like that for the rest of his body's existence. He was too gorgeous to look anything but happy. 

Ryan closed Brendon's eyelids out of respect. Watching one of best friends die turned out to be significantly more difficult than seeing his own dead body. 

He felt tears prickle in the corner of his eyes as he sat down beside the now deceased boy in the dirt. "I've missed you." 

He didn't know if Brendon could hear him. He was still quite confused on whom became a ghost (Brendon most likely would, as he was murdered) and even more so with who he could communicate with in this dimension (what he didn't know, but did indeed suspect, was that they shared the same killer). 

"You're so pretty," Ryan said, pushing Brendon's hair out of his face. He chuckled to himself. "You would make fun of me for saying that." 

There was a yellow dandelion a few feet from his hand, providing nearly the only light under the shadow of the cliff. 

Ryan read that ghosts were able to interact with living, human objects if they, if he, tried hard enough and cared enough. 

He picked the flower, or weed, but he wanted to think of it as something more beautiful, and set it on Brendon's chest. 

"We didn't deserve to die," he concluded. 

"Die?" 

Ryan jumped, startled.

The boy pushed past him to the body lying in the dirt. "Is that me?" Brendon turned to face him. "Ryan, I- Fuck, I don't know what happened. I was running, there was a guy chasing me. I was so scared, Ryan. Then I fell off and- Shit, dude, what did that guy want with me?" he ranted. "How is that even possible?" He gestured toward his lifeless body. 

"Brendon, calm down," Ryan instructed. 

Brendon adored his voice. His slight valley girl accent soothed him, it felt like home, no matter if he made fun of it. He found himself wishing Ryan had been with him a few moments prior, whispering something, anything to reassure him. He nodded. 

"I know this sounds crazy, but listen: you're a ghost, phantom, spirit, whatever the fuck you want to call it." Brendon nodded again and sat down. 

He had far too many wrinkles in his forehead for a seventeen year old.

Technically, he would be seventeen forever, at least in the physical aspect, which would totally suck because how would he ever get into a strip club? 

"Good news is that we can choose not to be, or stay if that's the route you want to go," Ryan explained. 

"How do we choose?" 

"Well, before that, we have to find out who killed us." 

"But who would want to murder us, Ryan?" Brendon sighed. "We're delightful. I've never done anything that bad!" 

Ryan snorted. "I've been doing some thinking lately, because it's super lonely when you haven't talked to someone in weeks-" 

"What about Pete? Who killed him?" Brendon asked. 

"Actually, I think someone else killed him." Ryan had spent quite a bit of time mulling over the concept. That was the only explanation making sense as to why he hadn't seen him yet. 

Although, he wasn't sure what actually made sense to him anymore. 

"Oh my god, there's two murderers roaming around now," Brendon groaned. A sudden feeling of dread swept over him, much more intensely than he would have liked. 

"Are you okay? You look like you're going to puke." 

"I'm fine, I think. Well, actually, not really, because, you know, I'm fucking dead." 

"You probably feel really emotional right now, right?" assumed Ryan. 

"You don't have to talk me through puberty, dude." 

He rolled his eyes. He did that quite often, Brendon observed. It certainly wasn't because he thought he was above anyone else. Ryan was never one to abuse an over inflated ego. 

Brendon reckoned it was because he knew he was just like everyone else. He knew he was human with human thoughts and human instincts, no matter how contrastingly inhumane they may be. He rolled his eyes for the world to see that it owned him, and he was well aware of it, that he was over it, but just not above it. 

Ryan may have been a ghost, but he was still so inescapably human. 

"You're having mood swings and shit because ghosts experience more negative emotions, and they experience them more often." 

"When did you become an expert on this stuff?" Brendon prodded. 

Ryan held up a thick, leather bound book. "This," he said. "My mom gave it to me." 

"Your mom? I thought she was, you know." 

"Yeah, but she's a ghost too." 

"Wait, she was murdered?" Brendon gasped. 

"No, the police knew for a fact it was a suicide." There was a brief silence. 

"I'm really sorry, Ryan. I miss your mom, too." 

He nodded solemnly. "Anyway, I forgot to mention that once we found out who it is, justice needs to be served. I think that means he either has to be arrested or," Ryan hesitated. 

"We have to kill him."


	4. Chapter 4

"Wentz."

She said it in a sickly sweet voice. She was a candy apple. She knew she was absolutely too good to resist, and Pete just had to have a taste. 

"Frangipane."

He said it unwaveringly but with a playful smirk decorating his lips. It was almost as if he were trying to keep his pride, even in the moments before he would do something so shameful. He knew candy apples were made to be eaten. 

Ashley flaunted the same caramel colored hair as his boyfriend. 

He had taken to identifying as asexual as of late and that was something Pete just couldn't fathom. He and Mikey had basically met from fucking each other. 

"Wait, so asexual like a plant?"

Mikey sighed. The lack of education in America on different sexualities exhausted him. 

"No, Pete. It's different for everyone, but for me it's more like the idea of sex is appealing, but when I do it, it's just kind of weird. Do you get it?"

Pete didn't get it, but he nodded anyway. That's what you do when you love someone. 

"So, all the times you had sex with me... am I not, like, good?"

"No, Pete, it's not you, it's me," Mikey assured him. 

This was sounding an awful lot like a breakup and to Pete it was, in a way. There was one less dick in the world for him. 

"I just think I had sex, because I felt like I was supposed to," he explained further. 

"I hope I never pressured you into it. I didn't want to-"

"No, Pete, you're fine." Mikey was smiling so Pete started to as well. "We should go see a movie or something."

Pete nodded, severely overestimating his ability to go without fucking someone. In short, it had been two weeks and Pete wanted more action than his own hand. 

He stood in front of Ashley's bright red door. It was so intense and unnecessary, but Pete found himself entranced by it nonetheless. He thought it was easiest to buy into what was shoved at him, like society's idea of 'side chick culture' and what he was doing wasn't so bad.  

The irony was he had kissed Mikey on the cheek before he left. 

Pete was still staring a bit too intensely at Ashley's front door when she opened it. He flinched. 

"Did I scare you?" She giggled. 

Pete wondered how many other boys she let into her house like this. He reckoned at least half of the soccer team.  

The other half dreamed of it. 

Ashley Frangipane was a bit of a legend, or she seemed that way, at least, to a bunch of teenage boys. She was well aware of it, too. She would date and fuck someone for a week, then she'd him like snake skin. 

But they kept coming back because of the entirety of Lincoln Prep romanticized the idea of Ashley Frangipane, and it was for all the wrong reasons. 

Pete would have given her more in the way of a greeting, but her mouth was already on his neck. 

"You still have that boyfriend?" she asked, kissing her way up to his ear with those candy coated lips. 

He nodded. He felt sort of guilty, but not enough to stop, which was the unfortunate part for all three of them. 

"I won't give you a hickey then," she promised. She stepped back a bit, her arms still behind his neck. "I'll save that job for him."

Pete bit his lip. 

"Don't feel guilty. Love is dirty, babe," she said, slipping her thigh between his legs. "It makes lust-driven monsters of us all, but this, what we're doing, isn't love. This is pure, graceless sex."

He moved his hands to her waist.

"And I'm sorry, babe, but what you have with Mikey isn't love either." Ashley studied his eyes. They wouldn't meet her own. "You wouldn't be here if you loved him. Even I know that, and no one's ever loved me before."

"I'm sure that's not true," Pete attempted to alleviate her distress. He ignored her first, bitter point. 

"Oh, but it is. I'm adopted and my mother here knows as much about me as real mother did, and I haven't seen her since I was five." She began to grind her hips into his. "Now come here and fuck me like I mean something to you."

He wasn't exactly sure what to make of her story, much less what to do now. Luckily, Ashley decided for him and wrapped her fingers around his wrist, pulling him to her bedroom. 

She climbed on top of him and kissed him again. Pete squirmed under the heat of their lips, but his discomfort slipped him after a moment of their hormone driven actions, as had the thought of Mikey. 

The only guilt taking him was the fact his boyfriend couldn't experience this. 

"Want a cig?" She held out the box to him He took one apprehensively. 

In movies, cigarettes after sex seemed popular, as did using them to calm nerves. 

He took the lighter as well. It was black with flowing strings of intense blue decorating the simple background. Pete hadn't realized he had been staring at it until Ashley said something. 

"That's my favorite color," she told him. 

"Black?"

"No, I meant the blue. Deep blue like the ocean, light blue like the sky, aqua like the lighter. It's all just gorgeous."

"Like your hair, too."

She smiled. "Yeah, like my hair."

Pete fumbled with the lighter, dropping it on the stained sheets several times. She watched him with a bemused smile. "Fuck!" He put his burned finger in his mouth. 

"You've never done this before, have you?"

"No," he admitted. She took the cigarette from him and lit it. She placed it in his mouth. The roll was heavy on his tongue, and he started to taste ash instead of sweetness. 

He tried to take a drag, but it made him cough and his eyes water. He shook his head, handing the chemicals back to Ashley. She gladly put it in her mouth. 

"I can't find the words for it," Pete said, "but you're more of, like, a person than you seem."

She quirked an eyebrow. "We're all just people, Pete."

"I thought- The way people talk about you, it just didn't occur to me that you'd have a story, that you cared about things, or even had a favorite color."

"It can be hard to repaint the picture people have of you. For me, it's easier to become the so-called 'art.'"

"A lot of people deserve so much better than what they have. I'm glad I talked to you, I would have never-"

Pete sighed and ceased his talking. They both understood. 

"High school sucks," Pete decided. 

"You feel guilty about Mikey, don't you?" Ashley assumed. 

"I don't feel so guilty that we did this, honestly. I feel guilty about his getting stuck with someone like me. There are people who could love so much more."

"We all think that, that Mikey loves and cares too much."

Pete nodded. Ashley's clock flashed four o'clock, trying to make its way into their conversation. 

"This is a secret, right? You're not going to tell anyone or him?"

"That's the beauty of a secret; you know you're supposed to keep it."

A smile ghosted Pete's lips. He reached for the pen on Ashley's bedside table and scrawled his number on her hand. 

"I hope you find someone who really cares," he told her honestly. "Call me sometime."

And she did.

Though, it didn't go exactly the way Pete had hoped. That was an understatement. 

Because when Pete picked up the phone and heard "I'm pregnant, and I'm pretty sure it's your fault," he nearly threw up, and he wasn't even the pregnant one. 

"What? How?"

"I don't know, Pete! There must have been a hole in the condom or some bullshit. Did we even use one? God, I can't remember."

"Calm down, Ashley. I'm sure there's a way to fix this. Um, can you take a morning after pill?"

"News flash, it isn't the morning after, and there's already a fucking child inside of me. How can that happen, I'm a fucking child?"

"Okay, do you want to get a... you know-"

"An abortion?"

Pete bit his lip. The thought of an abortion made him uncomfortable, because the only way he had heard of was with a hanger, and that sounded painful. He wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"Well, the flaw there is that I told my foster mother, because I didn't know what to do. She was all like 'abortion is murder.' Conservative people make life so difficult."

"Can you just sneak?"

"Me? You mean we. You got me into this mess, so you're going to get me out of it. I googled it, and you don't actually need parental consent."

"So? Are we going to a place?"

"Yeah, Friday, right after school."

Pete winced. "Ashley, I have a thing with Mikey. I can't-"

"God, you're still together with the kid?"

Pete was. He felt guilty, but, as little sense as it made, being with Mikey, physically and mentally, made him feel considerably better. He figured he just needed someone because, in his own words, high school sucked, and Mikey was naive enough to like him.

"You know what, I don't care. You're coming there with me or I'll tell everyone, including Mikey, you were the one that got me pregnant."

"But that's the beauty of a secret; you know you're supposed to keep it."

She hung up.

The next time Pete saw her, her hair was red, matching her eyes. Her gaze drowned his attempts at conversation, leaving it at:

"Look I'm sorry-"

"Don't."

He read an information page while Ashley filled out the paperwork. He didn't want to know what would happen when her mom found out; there was no way she wouldn't notice her stomach's lack of growth.

Pete felt more guilty about this than about the boy he was blowing off, and that made him feel worse. He was drowning, and this was possibly the worst thing to happen in his sixteen years of life. To everyone in the waiting room, it looked as if he was breathing fine.

But thoughts weren't just swimming in his head, they were like a tsunami crashing inside of his head. The water threatened to leak out of his eyes. He had been so sheltered his entire life. Ashley's baby made him realize a lot more than protection was imperative.

"Ashley Frangipane?"

She got up from the chair. "You can stay here,"she told Pete, and he nodded.

He realized that he was growing up, that what he did mattered and affected not only him but everyone around him.

His phone buzzed with a message from Mikey. 

His widened as he realized he forgot to cancel their dinner together. 

"You coming lmao?" it read. Pete knew as well as any other teen that lmao did not actually mean "laughing my ass off." In that moment, he had decided on being a better person.

That entailed his getting up to go meet his boyfriend as promised, with the consequence of leaving Ashley. It wasn't nearly a minute a minute into his epiphany, and he had already failed.

He became aware of this as soon as he was outside Steak and Shake and received a phone call from the very same girl he had ditched.

"I'll kill you, Pete Wentz, I swear on my real mother's grave. I'll kill you and every damn boy that used me at that school."

Perhaps he shouldn't have shrugged that off like he did.


	5. Chapter 5

The thing about being a ghost in an entirely different dimension is that time does not exist.

Of course, one could argue that time isn't real anywise, that it is a construct, created with the sole purpose of organizing the few hours of wakefulness and even fewer hours of sleep. Ryan, personally, supported this idea. Though, he had a habit of bringing it around a large group of relatives who didn't appreciate it nearly as much as he did. They, in turn, had a habit of shushing him.

The thing about Pete Wentz was that he thought time existed, which inspired his abrupt lifestyle change. It inspired him to care about his future because he realized he would be in college on his own soon enough; he needed to be responsible. Thought, it was a bit too late for that. 

His plans died with him, but at least he didn't have to worry about what job he would have in five years. 

Nor would Brendon or Ryan, but they hadn't been worrying quite as much. In fact, their worrying began after their perishing. 

The feeling of boredom rarely existed to them. Being more susceptible to negative emotions, it came as desperation, as an incentive to find out who murdered them. 

The thing about determination is that it hardly comes without worry. 

Brendon sat on the ground with the warm earth beneath him, although he couldn't feel the soft grass on his thighs. That wasn't the world he was in. 

He was using a stick to draw lines in the dirt so as to practice using otherworldly objects. 

He and Ryan were together in the physical sense. The other boy sat just on the other side of the tree. But otherwise, both were silent and brainstorming possible suspects in their own heads. Well, Ryan was, and he had a growing list. 

Brendon dedicated more focus to his ability to hold a stick and create a tragically average drawing of the sun. 

He had rested in the same place so many times as a child, and, with the abundance of free time from being dead and all, he begged Ryan to go back. He was a sentimental person. Ryan was not. 

"Hey, Brendon," Ryan called. 

The stick slipped through his fingers. 

"Yeah?"

"What if it was, like, some kids from GHS because they hate our soccer team, you know."

"But would they actually care enough to kill us? Because they'd have some issues then. I don't know if college is worth killing someone."

"You think that the person who killed us doesn't have issues?" 

Ryan moved to take a seat in front of Brendon. Their eyes met and neither wanted to look away, causing an impromptu staring contest with dignity as an imaginary prize. 

Though, Ryan lowkey just liked looking at his eyes. 

Brendon sighed and fluttered his eyes to the ground. "I didn't say that. Of course you have issues if you fucking kill somebody."

"I'm honestly confused, because there aren't that many people at school who hate us to that extent. Maybe it isn't someone at school; the cops could be mistaken. Actually, I think there's a big possibility-"

"Ryan, we have to go to school. Like now."

"What? Are you afraid you're going to miss a test?"

"No, you don't understand. I can just, like, feel it in my head."

A puzzled (but slightly exasperated as he always appeared to be slightly exasperated) expression decorated Ryan's face. Brendon ignored him and stood up, brushing the dirt off his pants. He reached out a hand to pull Ryan up, and he took it. 

Despite how full of shit he thought Brendon was. 

"C'mon," he encouraged and started down the street. 

They were only about a block away, but, even though it had no effect on his body anymore, Brendon still managed to despise physical activity. In fact, Ryan determinedly was the only person on the planet who felt worse about exercise. At least Brendon was on the soccer team; Ryan quit less than a week after Brendon forced him to join. 

"So, what do you feel?" Ryan put air quotes around 'feel.'

"I'm not sure, but I know it's the right thing to do."

"You think that's where the murderer is? Do you even think there'll be someone there?"

"Have some faith in me, Ryro."

"Yeah, where does your faith for your gut come from? And don't fucking call me Ryro."

"It's not faith wanting me to believe this is what we're supposed to do."

A silence fell over them for most of the journey to Lincoln Prep, leaving Brendon to pick at his lip and Ryan to pick a meaning from what his friend said.

It wasn't broken until both of them stopped dead in their tracks. A black clad figure stood under the tree. He was hunched over in a way that looked as if he was inspecting it, or rather inspecting the body lying underneath it.

Brendon's eyes practically sparkled as he glanced over to see Ryan's reaction. 

"I told you so," he smirked. Ryan rolled his eyes. "So what do we do?"

He looked as if he was thinking, but just said, "I could kiss you right now, Brendon."

Their glee fled as the man turned around because they swore people weren't supposed to be able to hear them. Of course it wasn't going to be that easy. 

"Ha, gay!" he yelled.

"Pete?" They groaned in unison. 

"Where have you been you must have died, like, a month ago!" 

"How'd I get there?" Pete gestured toward his body under the tree. "When I'm right here."

The other two boys remained frozen, unable to form words for their disappointment in seeing Pete and confusion as to why he only now made his presence known.

"Wait, died? As in, d-i-e-d? Not d-y-i-e-d, like my hair's a cool color now?"

"First of all, that's not how you spell-"

"Yeah, we all got murdered, and you were the first to go. I missed you, dude." Brendon confessed. "You're supposed to see the deceased person you care about the most, and they explain everything. Like I saw Ryan."

Ryan felt something in his stomach at that. 

"I don't think a dog can explain that much to me, to tell the truth," Pete said after a moment of deep introspection about the death that emotionally affected him the most.

Ryan was convinced that Pete was one of those people that pretended to be stupid. He had to be.

"Man, I miss Pickles."

Oh, God, what if he wasn't pretending? Ryan gave him a sympathetic look, then realized they were both expecting something from him.

"Ugh, I don't have the energy to talk that much again. You'll have to follow along, Pete, but, basically, we need to figure out who killed us and get revenge. You didn't happen to see who it was did you?" He shook his head.

All of the sudden, the realization he was actually and seriously dead hit him like the time Meagan Camper slapped him in the middle of the hall. Except, that was a mistake, as she was a bit high and mistook him for someone else. Maybe death was high as well and accidentally took the wrong person because he was so fucked up.

He didn't want to die; no one wants to die. Maybe end their life, perhaps, but not die. Pete was not handling this well, neither did he handle The Slap well. He was seriously embarrassed then and he flushed even more now as he registered that he was going to cry in front of his friends.

"Are you okay?" 

People underestimated Ryan's caring side due to the fact that he came off as so cynical. You had to be close to him or have a 'no' on the tip of your tongue in order to see it. 

Pete shook his head and figured he needed more than a hug at the moment. However, he got a hug anyway because that's the type of person Ryan was. He tried to pull away because that was the type of person he was, but Ryan didn't let him.

"We're going to figure this out, okay?" Pete nodded his head again, not trusting his voice quite yet.

Brendon stood to the side awkwardly and with jealousy burning in the pit of his stomach because that's the type of person he was.

They waited a few more moments until everyone had recovered until Ryan spoke.

"So none of us managed to see his face?" 

"Or her."

"It's probably a he. Men are awful," said Brendon.

Ryan turned to him. "You're a men, you do realize this?" 

"Well, the ladies sure realize I'm a man with deez-"

"Guys, I'm serious."

"Yeah, yeah, we need to be very focused," Pete agreed. "I have an idea of who it might be, actually." 

Ryan and Brendon perked up again.

"Well, I may have gotten Ashley pregnant on accident."

Ryan had to take a moment. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Shut the fuck up, Ryan, I'm trying to be more responsible. See how I'm helping now?" He gestured vaguely around where they were standing. "Anyway, we had a pretty interesting phone call where she said she wanted to kill a lot of the boys in our grade."

"Okay, well, that's a pretty big clue. But... what do we need to do now?" asked Brendon.

"Can people see us?"

"Nope."

"Then we should go to a club or somewhere else that's eighteen plus," Pete suggested.

"Why would that help in the slightest?" Ryan sighed.

"I don't know, but we're dead, we might as well try to have fun."

"He has a point. I mean, what's going to happen if we take a small break?"

He sighed because Brendon also had a point, and Ryan wished he had a pointy stick to point violently into whatever part of his brain decided there was a point to having friends with no grasp on the concept of responsibility. Then again, what has the point in allowing his current ghastly state to override any positive emotions?

So, Ryan gave in and pointed down the road. "All the shops and clubs are that way."

Pete, of course, began to talk as soon as they started to walk. "So, can we walk through walls and shit?" 

The other two nodded, and Pete grinned upon seeing a lady with a stroller ahead of them. He sped up to her as Brendon and Ryan stared quizzically at each other. He kept running, straight through the stroller.

"Dude, a baby just passed through my crotch. That's so cool; it was like I was giving birth... kind of," Pete said in awe. He stopped in his tracks. "Maybe we should go investigate if Ashley killed us, I want to make sure she doesn't hate me that much."

Ryan sighed because that meant more physical activity, but the love part of their love-hate relationship made him turn around.

"Where does she live?" Brendon asked, sounding equally annoyed.

"Close to here, actually."

It did turn out to be considerably close as they were at her door soon enough. The same door Pete had opened just a month ago. The same door that may have caused the three of them to lose their lives. 

Pete chose to incriminate the door instead of any of his own faults or even those of Ashley. He found it so much easier to blame the circumstance or the opportunity or Ashley's figure than himself.

They entrance lead straight into the kitchen where a larger than average knife lay on the counter. Brendon couldn't help but think that a bit suspicious. 

"Um, you guys." The other two understood what he meant, but chose not to assume anything. She could have just been making dinner.

At three in the afternoon.

"We should check her room," Ryan said carefully. None of them wanted to admit they knew where it was; though, Brendon actually wasn't aware. 

People have had an awful habit of assuming people's sexualities as of late, and especially assuming things about Brendon. 

Pete lead the three down the hall and into her bedroom. 

It looked like any teenage bedroom. There was a desk in the corner, a bed on the other side, a pile of clothes on the floor. Pete himself could have lived there, but he knew all too well who did. 

"I'll check over here," he said. Brendon and Ryan nodded, separating to different areas for possible evidence. 

It didn't take long for Ryan to find suspicious-looking paper on her desk. It read:

I couldn't think of anything to say, and I considered not even writing a note. But I think you deserve to know why. That's you plural, but I'm hoping my "mom" will find this first. 

I've never felt at home here in Las Vegas or in my own skin. I've never felt at home with anyone in my life. I'm sure they felt the same way about me because I've never had friends. I've had acquaintances. I've never had a mom and dad. I've had foster parents. 

No one cares, not even me anymore. 

I'm not sorry. Every expects suicidal people to be sorry, but I'm finally really thinking of myself instead of how I can change myself to please other people. 

But I will say goodbye. Goodbye. 

To my real mom: Fuck you. This is partly your fault. 

To Lindsay: you were the closest person to me in my life and I thank you for that. I hope you do get to change your name to Lyn-Z; it's pretty badass. This isn't your fault. 

To Pete: You were smarter than people thought. I'm not mad anymore, just regretful. I'm sorry I said I'd kill you. I didn't mean it, and you really died. Also, I kind of liked you. Maybe in the next life? I wanted to make sure you knew this isn't your fault, even if you're not here to read this. 

"Um, Pete," Ryan called and handed him the paper. 

He skimmed over it then dropped it back on the desk next to a shattered lighter. The blue lighter that Ashley helped him with. Pieces of it littered the table top, each shard reflecting the sun and things she wished wouldn't have happened. 

They all stayed silent for a moment, Brendon having read it by now. 

"Is there anything we can do to stop her?" Pete asked desperately. 

"I'm sorry, Pete. I have no idea where she went, and she can't even see us. What could we even do?" Ryan said. 

"Something." He appeared panicked and helpless. There was literally nothing they could do. 

"Ryan's right-" Brendon began. 

"Whatever. It doesn't matter. At least we know she's not the killer."


End file.
